


Accountability

by purplebullet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebullet/pseuds/purplebullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John runs off by himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accountability

**Author's Note:**

> Since (British) English isn't my native language and I'm getting some new vocabulary in college, I decided to try and remember some of these words by writing fics about them. And since I'm getting British English and not American, obviously I have to write Sherlock.

Unbelievable. This was the first time – literally the first, he had never done this before, not even _once_ – he had run off on his own, following his instincts instead of trusting Sherlock's, and now he was in a bigger mess he ever could've imagined. Naturally today was also the day Sherlock had nicked his gun again for recreational purposes. And John had tumbled down the rabbit hole all on his own to come face to face with the smugglers they'd been tracking the past few weeks. Sherlock had made a slight mathematical mistake; there weren't about a dozen of them, more a hundred.

They also had around two hundred guns pointed at John. Especially that was what made him want to curse like a sailor.

Then his phone chose to join the party. The smugglers lowered their guns to the general direction of John's crotch, following the sound instinctively and causing John to feel more than a bit uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he said weakly over the ringing of his phone. “I can turn it off if you like.”

“You are the partner of Sherlock Holmes, are you not?”

John repressed a sigh. There was always someone who happened to know about Sherlock and therefore, inevitably, about John and his connection to the man.

“Is it him?” one of the smugglers asked, his thick Russian accent faintly reminding John of that one time he flirted heavily with a Russian woman in a local pub. He pushed the memory out of his mind. Bad timing.

“I don't know. You want me to check?”

The smuggler, a buff man with an eye-patch, nodded quickly, almost excitedly. He waved his gun up and down, still pointing at John's trousers, to get him to pick up fast. John, never a fan of having weapons pointed at his balls, obeyed happily. He needn't look at the screen before picking up.

“John, where are you,” came Sherlock's voice instantly. At moments like these John always found it uplifting to hear Sherlock panic.

“Is it him?” eye-patch man demanded, taking a step closer. John nodded, considered handing over his phone. He didn't, in the end, as he hadn't forgotten a criminal's tendency to run off with it or even worse, smash it to pieces on the ground. John wasn't a wealthy man, and Sherlock couldn't keep pickpocketing random passers-by. Well, it wasn't that he _couldn't_.

“D'you want me to say anything to him?” John asked the smuggler, but got Sherlock replying instead.

“Tell him to run.”

John didn't get time to process the answer, as right after a small but effective bomb exploded in the middle of the gang of smugglers, followed by others apparently surrounding the group with such precision John didn't need to bother thinking of it as luck. He was beginning to learn such thing didn't exist with Sherlock.

What he had learned already a long time ago, however, was that when a bomb struck, you had to _duck_. John plastered himself against the dusty, concrete floor, and tried to keep his breathing as slow as possible under the circumstances. He was more worried about the footsteps running towards him, though, but with not much but fire, more dust and the occasional swaying bodies to see there wouldn't be much use in trying to figure out who was nearing, and why. He could only hope it was Sherlock.

It was only a bit surprising to find out it really was him. John could only make out his face when Sherlock knelt beside him looking rather in a hurry, hands flying all over John's body to, John realized belatedly, check for any injuries. Sherlock's hands slipping underneath his armpits were a confirmation John was fine – or at least fine enough to get to his feet.

Except there were still bombs going off around them and one of them, naturally, exploded only a few meters away. Though the bomb wasn't as big as the one that had started it all, it still had enough impact to blow John and Sherlock a few more meters away from their spot. Good thing was they ended up far from all the other bombs.

“You're losing your touch,” John mentioned almost casually. He groaned at the ache in his knee when he pushed himself off the ground. Not far to his right was Sherlock, his hand close to clinging to John's arm. Even with all the noise there was no way Sherlock hadn't heard him. The scandalized look he shot John confirmed it.

“Excuse me?”

“Apology accepted.”

Sherlock was halfway his sneer when a few more explosions found place, luckily far enough not to cause them any harm, which naturally did nothing to the noise it all made. John didn't mind, as it gave him time to gloat wonderfully at an upset Sherlock. Lovely day it was after all.

John found himself getting dragged out the underground garage by Sherlock a moment later, pulling him away from the harmed gang. When passing the eye-patch man, John faintly remarked he'd need a second eye-patch. He smiled, and for a second or two didn't even think of the cold leather wrapped around his wrist.

Until he was outside, out on the midday street with too much light shining in his eyes, and said leather's touch disappeared. He was faced with the owner of that leathered hand then, who didn't look very happy. It probably had to do with more than the joke. Although with Sherlock it was difficult to be certain sometimes. All the time, actually.

“You think it's safe to leave?” John asked after he rubbed his hands together, getting rid of most of the dust lingering on them.

“It's fine,” Sherlock snapped, “I called Lestrade.”

Whether it meant Lestrade was already downstairs or on his way was unclear. John wasn't going to ask. He wouldn't get a decent answer anyway – and that wasn't just due to Sherlock's foul mood. John squinted his eyes against the sunlight before turning his back to it, and let out a breath. He could see it appear and vanish in front of him quickly. Bloody sun, always betraying a Londoner's expectations.

“So--”

“Oh don't even try,” Sherlock cut John off. John turned to him, perplexed. Sherlock was frowning at him. Deeply. “Don't ever do that again.”

“Do what? Lead you to the smugglers? Well sorry for helping you.”

“I would've caught them before they'd left the country,” Sherlock snapped back. “I didn't need you to go off on your own and play hero.”

John frowned as deep as him. “I wasn't playing--”

“I don't want to hear your petty excuses.” It dawned on John that he'd never known Sherlock to be this angry with him. Not even when he'd tried to help Mrs. Hudson get rid of the skull. “Don't you get it? You account to _me_. If anything happens to you--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” John was quick to interrupt, “ _I account to you_? You're not my boss!”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to snort but didn't. Perhaps because he knew what effect it would have on John and, more importantly, his itching hands.

“Then what am I? It's obvious who's in charge out of the two of us, no point in denying.” S

omehow Sherlock had the upper hand of the conversation again. John forced control over himself so they'd be equals once more, and not only in this discussion.

“Just because you're the one with the tricks up your sleeve doesn't mean I'm useless. I help. Without me who knows how long it would've taken you to get those smugglers.”

No matter how much truth there was to it, Sherlock merely smiled that infuriating little smile that made John want to lose control just a moment, just to gently punch Sherlock right in the face and make sure he wouldn't be able to do that smiling thing for a while.

But he didn't. He wasn't going to give in to temptation. He'd been through this before; so many times he couldn't count them any longer.

“You _help_ ,” Sherlock said, “But I wouldn't fall apart without you, and neither would my business.”

“Right,” John laughed. It was the only reaction he could think of, if he wasn't going to hit Sherlock. “Your business barely got you by before I came along. In fact I saved your life, and I'm still saving it every bloody day. If anyone accounts to anyone, it's _you_ to _me_.”

Sherlock's mouth opened, but he didn't respond. Just when John felt like he had won the argument – he couldn't remember how long that had been – Sherlock's eyes narrowed in an all too familiar way. No use to try and cover anything up. John never knew where Sherlock got his deductions from anyway, be it his trousers or hair or even an invisible pimple on his right cheek.

“You met Mycroft again,” Sherlock said in the end, voice dangerously low, as it always was when his brother was the subject at hand. John had learned not to take it seriously. It was easy to see Sherlock as a petulant child, in some cases.

“That doesn't matter,” John countered. “You should learn to respect me a little more. And don't you dare laugh or I swear to God--” Sherlock obliged, surprisingly enough. “You should respect me, because I do more for you than you let yourself think. Not just with the cases, but with everything. So you better start appreciating me or I'm out.”

Sherlock had never before tried to hide his surprise from John. It was the only reply he would ever need.

“And if you pull that accountability shite with me again, I'm going to--”

“Mess up my sock-index again?”

While it didn't bring up a particularly fun memory, John laughed, and Sherlock followed suit. When they heard the all too familiar sirens, they ran away from the crime scene as quickly as possible. Not that they weren't supposed to be there, but running away was far more exciting than staying put.


End file.
